Since the hospital said visiting hours were over, I had to decide between a hotel and home . . . is this my home?
I know the answer. This isn’t my life anymore. Jackson isn’t here, so it’s not home.
I set the plate on the vanity and push my suitcase sideways on the floor. It’s just after nine o’clock, but I’m exhausted from traveling. And I missed a call from Jackson while in flight. I call him back, but it goes straight to his voicemail. I don’t like this game of phone tag. It leaves me confused and a little hurt.
Flying into LA is one of my least favorite things to do. With the paparazzi everywhere, I usually mentally prepare as well as physically, but this time, I don’t give a crap. Let them get their awful pictures if they want. I don’t care. I’m only here for one reason. My dad.
I don’t eat carbs much, though Jackson’s gotten a few in me, but I take a big bite of the sandwich. I haven’t had one of these sandwiches in years. As I bite into it, I’m reminded of the simple pleasures in life, like cheese between two slices of white bread with just a little butter on the inside.
When I left the city in such a hurry, I grabbed what I had on hand, pulling the clothes from hangers without much thought. Throwing them in the suitcase without being choosy was probably not my best move. Standing in front of the open suitcase, though, I realize I didn’t pack any pajamas.
My dresser is still against the far wall. It makes me wonder if the clothes are still folded neatly inside, just how I left them behind. I don’t even know if I could fit into anything I wore back in high school, but it’s worth a try.
I settle on a T-shirt I bought at a music festival and a pair of shorts that have the word spoiled written across the ass. Holding them in front of me, they look small, but it’s my only hope, or I’m sleeping in my underwear. It’s better if I’m dressed in something more rather than risk the staff walking in on me in the morning.
After stripping off my pants and blouse, I rub my feet. Traveling in heels is not ideal, but my mind was muddled when I was rushing to get to the airport. Once I brush my teeth, I wash my face, keeping my routine. Routine is good, but this isn’t mine anymore. The routine, sure, but not the place.
My emotions have been running rampant, bouncing between the fear for my dad’s health to how Jackson and I left things. Leaving without talking to him wasn’t something I wanted, but I tried my best before almost missing my flight.
It’s the anger, though, the pain my dad caused that kept me from calling him over the past six months, suddenly feeling like a privilege I shouldn’t have assumed I had. Guilt answered that call from the housekeeper. Otherwise, I would have let it go to voicemail. It’s been out of sight, out of mind for the past few months.
The distractions were a nice reprieve, but were they just doing more damage in the long run? I had to face my father sometime. I just wish it wasn’t under these conditions.
It’s so hard for me to reconcile the pain he’s caused. I thought it was about the money, that the money being ripped away under lies and manipulations was when I hit rock bottom.
It wasn’t.
It was living without any family.
Somehow, I manage to smile through all this chaotic mess just from the thought of Jackson. He’s done his best to fill the holes my parents left. But that was never his job, and he shouldn’t have been stuck doing it.
I climb under the covers of my childhood bed and rest my head back on the pillow. As I stare up at the white canopy, the little plastic stars I attached when I was eleven still glow for me. I didn’t have many creature comforts despite being raised in luxury. There was a nanny down the hall, but I had the stars to keep me company at night.
Now I’m alone.
In this room.
In Los Angeles.
On this journey.
I miss the constant that is Jackson.
There was too much time to think on the flight, but the nugget I pulled from the chaos is that for the past two months, I’ve been trying to make up for all the years we lost. Was it my way of telling him thank you? Maybe.
Selfishly, I regret not giving him a chance sooner.
Highly probable.
Jackson St. James is so much more than I could have ever asked for, but I think I failed. I failed to realize that he wasn’t loving me because I existed, or because I was simply there living in his space. He loved me because our connection has been built over the years. The stones we started laying from the moment we met have paved the way for us to be together.